Again, But Better(15)

He’s got this chill-modest-cool-guy half smile on. “Yes, it’s actually on iTunes, and it’s not that hard to get your album on iTunes.”

“Pies, that’s so cool! Can I find it under your name or—how do I search you?”

“It’s under my band name.”

“What! You have a band? You’ve left out so many details of your music life!”

“It’s just me and my friend Ted, so it’s not like a full band.”

“What’s your band name?”

“We’re the Swing Bearers,” he shares with a giant grin.

A short laugh bursts out of me. “Wow, I love that. It’s almost as cool as my blog. I mean, not quite as witty, but it’s got a nice ring to it.”

He snorts. “Okay, calm down, French Watermelon. We can’t all be on your level.” The phrase French Watermelon sounds extra ridiculous when he says it.

“I’m gonna download your album when we get back.”

He presses his lips together. “I’ll excitedly await your review.”

“Am I allowed to share with the roomies?”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Go for it.”

“This is so exciting!” I don’t exactly skip, but my feet do a weird jumpy-dance thing.

I take stock of our surroundings. I haven’t been looking around enough. We’re approaching an opening back out into the city streets.

“You think we go this way, then?” I ask.

Pilot stops and puts his index finger to his forehead. “Card senses are tingling … that way.”

I roll my eyes.

We walk a little way down the street before coming up on a Starbucks. The familiarity of it amidst the culture shock of the last twenty-four hours actually brings me up short. I stop walking to admire it from across the street. Pilot backtracks a few steps and comes up on my right.

“Starbucks!” I point across the way. “Doesn’t Starbucks feel like an old friend now?”

He shrugs slightly with his hands still in his pockets. “Have you been since we got here?” he asks.

“No, not yet.”

“Shall we go give her a visit?” He smirks.

I snort. “A visit?”

“I mean, is she your friend or not? I don’t want walk in on a random stranger,” he answers with mock sincerity.

I scoff, “That was a stretch.”

“Uh, actually I think that was pretty witty,” he responds, using the male version of a valley-girl voice, his words all drawn out and over the top. I make weird smothered-laughter noises.

I take the steps two at a time into the Starbucks, coming to a stop at the end of the line. We shuffle along in silence for a few minutes, waiting to place our orders. I bounce on my toes, excited for my usual drink. When I reach the register, my mouth flops open. The barista is a tall woman in her forties with a knot of red hair—it’s the rude airplane lady!

“Hi, darling! I see you’re making friends!” She glances from me to Pilot, back to me, and winks. I shake my head, flabbergasted. Dear lord, woman, please don’t say anything else.

“What would you like?” she asks.

“I … um, a green tea latte, please,” I tell her.

“Oh, we don’t have those,” she replies.

“Oh … weird. Okay, can I have a tall pumpkin spice latte, please?”

“A what?”

“A pumpkin spice latte.”

“We don’t have pumpkin spice lattes.” She smiles.

“Okay, I guess I’ll have a tall cinnamon dolce latte, please.”

She shakes her head, bemused. “Never heard of that either.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, we don’t have cinnamon … dolce lattes.”

I can sense Pilot silently laughing beside me.

“What kind of Starbucks is this?” I mumble.

We leave five minutes later, both of us with tall vanilla lattes. That was so strange. I turn to Pilot to tell him about plane lady.

“So that was your friend?” He clicks his tongue before I have a chance to speak. “I mean, you didn’t know what was on the menu, so I’d say you’re mildly acquainted at best.”

I run a hand down my face, trying not to snort at his terrible attempt to continue the Starbucks-is-an-old-friend joke. “I thought it was my friend, but, turns out, it was a regular coffee shop who took Polyjuice Potion and was pretending to be my friend.”

“Oh, no, too far.” He shakes his head, grinning. “You ruined it with the Polyjuice Potion reference.”

“What are you talking about? That was clever! You had already pushed it too far!”

“No, I pushed it the perfect amount. Shane, you pushed it to extreme-dork levels.”

My cheeks burn from the force of my smile. We’re about to turn left at the upcoming intersection when I spot something colorful on the corner.

I gasp. “Pies. Look.” I point toward my discovery and watch his eyes widen.

“Is that what I think is?”

“That’s a Beatles store! A whole Beatles-themed store!”

“Oh wait, that’s that band you like, right?” he says.

“I’m resisting the urge to smack your arm so hard right now.” I’d actually like to grab his hand and drag him across the street, but my arm won’t obey that command; it’s too scared of rejection.